Correspondence Theory
by 7.06andcounting
Summary: Communication: the meaningful exchange of information. Steve may be missing out the 'meaningful' part, somewhat, when he 'talks' to the people back home. Sidefic to 'Love Me Two Times', best read around chapter 20 of that, in case of spoilers.


**A/N: A few people asked what was going on with Steve, while he is absent from the action in 'Love Me Two Times' but I wasn't sure whether to post this. Huge thanks to Arsosah, who persuaded me! As usual, ****S.E. Hinton owns Steve Randle _and_ the gang.**

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><p>What I'm thinking is, if that bastard McKenna don't stop his griping and bitching, I'mma close my hand around his throat and squeeze, until all I can hear is the insects and the tree frogs and what passes for silence in this fucking jungle.<p>

But what I write is,

_Dear Evie, _

_The guys here are mostly okay. Some I like better than others..._

xXx

What I'm thinking is, would I rather be blind or dead? If it came down to it. If the VC get lucky, or we get unlucky and this road ain't the safe route the brass swear that it is. Now that I've seen exactly what the cost of a ticket home might be, what would I bargain away, an arm or a leg? 'Cause it seems to me the cost is always written out in the one color. Blood red.

But what I write is,

_Dear Soda, _

_Remember when we raced that meathead with the crossed eyes, down to the construction site road? He still owes me a ten spot, so if you see him around, collect for me, okay..._

xXx

What I'm thinking is, what he tried to tell me, all that shit about having responsibility for another person, has really come back to smack me upside the head now. It ain't even the bills or the putting food on the table – I ain't afraid of hard work. But how do I grow Jay up? How do I know when to tell him stuff? How do I make him know right from wrong? I can teach him about cars, but what if he asks about stuff I don't know? How do you run someone else's life?

But what I write is,

_Dear Darry, _

_Don't think I'm outta the loop here, we get all the results and for you not having faith in the Cardinals, __you owe me seventeen bucks so far__. I told you losing Gibson wouldn't hold them back..._

xXx

What I'm thinking is, he was right. The kid was right. These people ain't proper soldiers, I ain't seen but farmers and grandmas and little kids, scared out their minds. This ain't a war, not like any war I ever thought about. Not like any of those movies I used to watch, with Sinatra or McQueen or that big guy, taking out all those Nazis or running around Pearl Harbor with pretty girls. The kid was right. Being here don't make no sense at all.

But what I write is,

_Dear Ponyboy,_

_I heard you was working at the warehouse with your big brother. Guess carrying all them books was good for something after all, it gave you muscles at least... _

xXx

What I'm thinking is, am I gonna feel different about this one day? 'Cause when I show the new photo around, although most of them say that the kid's a chip off the old block for sure, one of the guys insists that Jay has Evie's smile. I don't correct him. Partly because it's none of his fucking business and partly because I wish so much that it was true. I wonder if I'll ever be able to look at the kid and not wish that he was Evie's. I'm sorry, babe, I'm so sorry.

But what I write is,

_Hey, Babe, _

_That was a great shot of you and Jay, but what happened to the photo of you in that black underwear set that you promised me? But you better make sure only Jo sees it when she takes the Polaroid... _

xXx

What I'm thinking is, he ain't a flake underneath, no matter that he likes to pretend he is. He's a damn good fighter. He's tuff enough. He always had my back before and I can trust him to look after her now, look after them both. It might make me sick that it ain't me there to do that, but I know they're safe with him. I asked him to and he'll do it. I reckon he'd keep on doing it. If things go wrong and I never get to go home, he'd keep them safe.

But what I write is,

_Dear Two-Bit, _

_Try to come up with some jokes that didn't get printed on the newspaper in your great grandpa's outhouse. I already heard every single one you wrote last time around. You need to get some new material, man..._

xXx

What I'm thinking is, what's the deal with all these stars? Are there more here, or is it just that I have time to look at them? If every single one is a sun, does that mean there are planets like this one, up there? And on those planets are there guys looking up at the stars, including our sun? And are those guys all stuck in fucking jungles with nothing to do but look at the stars and wait to see if tomorrow is the day they die? What's the point? What's the goddamn point of it all?

But what if that ain't what's up there?

And so, I don't write it, but I send this up to those fucking stars,

_Dear Dallas, _

_If I end up coming to see you tomorrow, you'd better have scouted out some choice wheels and tell Johnny to have a cold beer ready..._


End file.
